Two Lost Boys
by forever-a-thief
Summary: After being kidnapped and experimented on, Sherlock and Mycroft are rescued. However, they aren't as well off as they were before; they are now children. John takes responsibility of the two boys and this is the story of their struggles. Mycroft's an angry teenager and Sherlock's a hyperactive little boy. Cue meltdowns and temper tantrums.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First, I do not own Sherlock! Also, if this looks familiar, it's probably because I have it posted at Archive of Our Own, as well. Now, enjoy!**

Mycroft woke with a pounding headache, his body sore and his muscles aching. Blinking slowly, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting before taking a glance around. He was strapped down to a bed. Odd. He would have said he was in a hospital except the dark, dingy room was a far cry from any hospital room he had seen in his life. As he sat contemplating the ceiling, another bed was wheeled in, placed beside him.

Craning his neck, he attempted to see just who exactly it was beside him. His eyes widened in shock when he realized it was his little brother, breathing hard and gripping the edge of the bed tightly, blinking drug-hazed eyes around the room.

The man who had wheeled him in came over to stand between them and grinned, which sent a sick chill through Mycroft. "Well, now. Get a good look at each other; this is the last time you'll see one another this way for a very long time." Mycroft tried to keep his face as neutral as possible, but inside his head he was edging into a full-on panic attack.

The man brought over a syringe, tapping it expertly, and grabbed Mycroft's arm. As he stuck the needle into Mycroft's soft flesh, he tried to thrash about. It did no good, though. The restraints kept him snug against the bed.

The man patted his arm after he was finished and then moved on to Sherlock, who was squinting at him, trying to place him through the fog in his mind. Even as the drug pulled him under, Mycroft begged for his brother's sake, who was only now beginning to return to awareness, turning his head in confusion towards Mycroft's gurney.

"Please, just use me. Leave him alone. Leave Sherlock alone. Let him be, I said! Stop it!" Even as he screamed, the man stuck Sherlock's arm. With a final look at Sherlock's confused, suddenly frightened face, Mycroft was dragged into darkness.

When he woke, he found he was still sore, his muscles pulling tight beneath his skin. He stretched slowly, rolling over, trying to fight off his imminent awakening. A soft murmured noise had him opening his eyes, though.

What he saw made the past day come crashing back to him in a wave of memories. He saw his little baby brother sitting on a bed, curled as small as possible beneath his blanket. He was watching Mycroft carefully, making tiny, soft noises to get his attention.

With a tentative glance around, Mycroft rose and padded over to Sherlock's bed. "It's alright, Sherlock. We'll figure out what's going on. Don't worry." Sherlock nodded and moved over to make room for Mycroft. The older smiled and took up a spot beside his little brother and grinned good-naturedly when Sherlock crawled into his lap and wrapped his arms around him.

"What the hell is going on, Mycroft? I was on my way to meet John at St. Bart's and then I woke up here, strapped to a bed." Mycroft ran a hand down Sherlock's arm and nodded into his curls.

"I'm not sure. From what's happened so far, I assume we're part of some sort of experiment."

On the tail of those words, the door opened and the man from before stepped over the threshold, a small smile on his face as he took the brothers in. "My, isn't that just adorable. Comforting each other. Well, time to get up. There's some tests we need to run." Mycroft raised an eyebrow but Sherlock reluctantly followed his lead and walked with the man into an adjoining room.

"You're quite small, Sherlock." The man grinned wickedly down at the little detective as he lifted him up onto an examination table. Mycroft stood by the door, unsure what he was to do. The man noticed this and waved him back. "You're next, so don't you go anywhere." Mycroft considered hitting the man over the head, but couldn't find anything that would truly knock him out. Besides, he was closer to Sherlock. He could still harm his little brother before he even attempted to move.

After a rigorous examination that left Sherlock in a foul mood, Mycroft stepped forward for his own, Sherlock hovering near the table, watching his brother with tight eyes. His was finished much more quickly and they were both ushered into some sort of kitchen.

"Now, eat up and I'll be back in ten minutes. Don't try anything stupid, there are guards stationed outside the door." The man left them with a glare and they watched in confusion. Once they were sure he had gone, Mycroft turned to Sherlock, worried.

"Alright, Sherlock. Any plans in that little head of yours?" Sherlock stared up at Mycroft, all wide eyes and gaping mouth. "I'll take that as a no, then." Mycroft cast about the room for a moment before an ear-screeching alarm sounded throughout the entire complex.

"What the hell is that, Mycroft!?" Sherlock screamed, throwing his hands over his ears while simultaneously cowering next to his brother. Mycroft covered his ears as well and hovered over Sherlock, watching the entrance suspiciously. He maneouvered Sherlock behind a table and squatted down beside him, a finger to his lips.

The sound of pounding feet and shouts hit them like a wall. Someone poked their head into the kitchen and, seeing no one, moved on. The boys sighed their relief and then sunk lower, keeping their hiding place.

After a few minutes, the alarm stopped. They could still hear the shouts and then gunfire was added to the mix. Sherlock whimpered softly and Mycroft wrapped a protective arm around his head, tucking the mess of curls into his chest.

More pounding of feet and then there was a woman standing in the doorway. She threw a cursory look around the kitchen and then stepped forward, checking the crevices and cupboards, gun drawn. Mycroft's face tightened and Sherlock tried to meld with him as he pressed his body close.

The moments drug on as she moved closer and closer to them. Finally, she pointed her weapon around the corner and came face to face with two frightened children.

As if the metal had burned her, she dropped the weapon to her hip and replaced it with a walkie talkie. "We've got two kids down here. The first kitchen on the second floor. Might need medical." She dropped the walkie to her hip and knelt down, holding her hands out non-threateningly. "It's alright, boys. I'm with the police. You're gonna be just fine. Come on out; you don't have to hide anymore."

Mycroft felt his stomach lurching but he nodded and stood, Sherlock still clinging to him, unwilling to stand on his own. "Is he hurt?" the woman asked, concern dripping from her words.

"No, no. He's just frightened." Mycroft felt like he might throw up right there but he stood, straightening his spine, and stepped up to the woman, but kept a certain distance between them. He wasn't an idiot. "I'm Mycroft Holmes, and this is my brother, Sherlock. If you can, get Detective Inspector Lestrade here immediately. He knows us. Tell him it's urgent."


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade arrived soon after and came directly to them. Mycroft had wrapped Sherlock in a blanket and the boy was slowly starting to recover himself, snapping at the police and emergency team that kept trying to take a look at him. When he saw Lestrade, his eyes lit up and he sat up quickly, untangling himself from the blanket.

"Lestrade! Thank God you've finally arrived. Tell these people to leave us alone!" Lestrade looked confused for a moment before the penny dropped and his jaw was left hanging.

''No. No, I was told the Holmes brothers were here but, no. No." He shook his head and looked around with a half-grin on his face, looking for someone playing a joke on him.

After a moment, he rubbed his face with his hand and sighed. "Alright, alright. Come with me, now. We'll go back to the Yard and I'll call John up." Sherlock's eyes widened in excitement and he gave Lestrade an exhuasted, timid grin, snatching Mycroft's hand and tugging him after the DI.

John arrived and stopped in the doorway, staring in confusion at the backs of two boys' heads as they sat in Lestrade's office. Lestrade pulled him aside and explained the situation, shaking his head.

"Really?" John muttered, screwing his eyebrows up and grinning. "That can't be possible. C'mon, you're taking the piss."

Another sigh escaped Lestrade and he shook his head. "If you don't believe me, go talk to them. They remember everything." John nodded and padded over to the office slowly, unsure exactly what he was going to say. It turned out he needn't have worried. When Sherlock saw him, he launched himself from his seat and tackled John's knees.

"Oh, well. Sherlock, you alright?" The little boy that barely came up to his waist nodded and grinned mildly, showing off his little teeth.

"Yeah, I'm fine. So's Mycroft. Just a bit younger than we should be." Sherlock shrugged, the anger boiling beneath his skin quickly smashed down for later when he was alone, and took his seat next to Mycroft again. John settled on the edge of Lestrade's desk and took a good look at the two of them.

Mycroft seemed to be about fifteen or so, a good height for that age, a bit gangly. He held himself unsurely, glancing around at everything but John. Nervous and maybe a bit embarrassed, then. His hair was fuller and longer than it had been a few days before, a brighter shade of auburn. His eyes were still the same, though. Icy and calculating, yet now shaded with fear and awkwardness. He seemed quite unsure of himself.

Sherlock was tiny beyond belief. He had to be about eight or nine, but he was small enough to possibly be mistaken for a six year old. His hair was wild and curly, his eyes giant and trusting. He was skinny and light and bounced around like he had the energy of a thousand suns, but he also seemed to be silently fuming beneath his energetic exterior.

"Oh, boys." John sighed suddenly, shaking his head. Mycroft's eyebrows knitted together for a moment before he quickly cleared his face into neutrality.

"What now?" Sherlock asked, staring up at John like his words were gospel. John quirked a grin down at him and ruffled his hair, much to Sherlock's distaste. Mycroft felt a knot beginning to form in his stomach. He had work to do. He had to get back to work, figure out what happened, and he couldn't watch over Sherlock while doing that.

"You'll go home with Doctor Watson. I have things I need to take care of." John saw Mycroft's eyes moving back and forth quickly, as if he were reading from a book. He knew that was what Mycroft looked like when he was thinking at an impossibly fast pace. He had better nip this in the bud right away. Later, though; let him think he'd won for a bit.

"Well, that's fine. Why don't you walk with us back to the flat, Mycroft? You can have someone pick you up there." Mycroft was deep in thought and just nodded in agreement, letting Sherlock take his hand and guide him out the door, becoming his eyes and ears while he thought.

Mycroft leveled an angry glare at John Watson, a glare he hoped was showing just how very stupid he thought John and his plan were.

It wasn't coming across very well.

He could see. He had eyes.

Damnit, these teenage _hormones_. _Emotions_.

John sighed heavily, throwing his hands in the air. "Mycroft, you cannot stay on your own and I wouldn't want you to think you should have to, closing yourself up in your study and continuing to run the government like you had flu or something." Mycroft faltered at that comment. That had actually been his plan.

John knew he had hit onto something when Mycroft flinched and looked away, uncomfortable. "Ah, so I do know something, don't I? Come on, it won't be too bad. You can even take my bed; I'll kip on the sofa."

At this point, Sherlock decided to voice his opinion as well.

"Oh, please. John, he doesn't need to take your bed. We can easily share; we did for some years. We can share, Mycroft. Yes? Come on, this isn't a hard decision. Just, stay with us?" When Mycroft didn't answer right away, Sherlock groaned and took a step closer to his brother, lowering his voice. "For God's sake, Mycroft. Don't make me _beg_ you to stay in front of John." Sherlock sounded disgusted with himself, but his face was ernest, looking up at him with wide eyes and a slight pout.

And how could Mycroft resist that face. He may have built up defences against his brother over the years, but the last forty-eight hours seemed to have erased them all. And he was impossibly _tired_ of being responsible all the time. Perhaps. . .

He knelt down to be level with Sherlock, who was now a good two feet shorter than him, and nodded, answering his brother in just as soft a voice. "Alright, Sherlock. I'll stay." The boy that was undeniably his baby brother grinned triumphantly and launched himself at Mycroft, tackling him to the pavement. Mycroft swept him into the air and held him close, pressing a light, timid, unsure kiss to Sherlock's hairline. Although, God, he hadn't felt this good in years!

It probably helped that now he had the physical appearance of a teenager. It made holding his nine year old brother much simpler.

John grinned at their show of affection and herded them into the flat, up the stairs and into the comfy domesticity of 221B Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I am so sorry! I forgot to update this! Here, have a bunch of chapters!**

"Mycroft?" The teen peeked his head around the corner of the kitchen and waited. John swiveled on his heel and gave him a reassuring smile. "Could you go get Sherlock? Dinner's nearly ready." Mycroft nodded and stepped down the hall, pushing open the bedroom door. Sherlock was standing at the window, staring down at the street.

With an exaggerated sigh, Mycroft walked further into the room and placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, craning to see over his head to the street below. "Please tell me you haven't been dropping things on people again." Sherlock grinned and peeked up at Mycroft mutinously, shaking his head.

"Of course not, Mycroft. You told me to stop and I stopped. I'm not deaf." Though he refuted the accusation, his tone seemed to contradict his words, and Mycroft sighed internally. Sherlock always had been hard to keep distracted. Before Mycroft could scold him, Sherlock turned and led his brother out of the room, into the kitchen where John was just beginning to dish up the plates.

"Before you ask, yes, you are eating everything on your plate, no arguments." John gave them his "Stern Captain" look and placed their plates before them. Neither boy fought John as they were clearly starving. They scarfed down the food in minutes.

Surprisingly polite, Sherlock looked up at John for a moment, seemingly calculating, before asking quietly, "May I be excused, John?" Raising an eyebrow, John nodded, giving his little flatmate a reassuring smile and watched as Sherlock launched himself from the chair and down the hall. Mycroft picked at the remaining scraps on his plate, staring at the tabletop in thought. John came up beside him and placed his hand lightly on Mycroft's shoulder.

"You alright, Mycroft?" As if shaken from a deep sleep, Mycroft jerked forward with a start and looked up at John, blinking owlishly.

"Yes, yes. Of course. I'm fine. Here, let me help clean up." He grabbed the empty plates from the table and threw them into the sink, then took a cursory look around the room before sighing and retreating to the sitting room. John watched in confusion but simply took it along with everything else.

It was only their first day together, and already John felt like he might be in over his head. He didn't know how to help the two children he was now responsible for, and he definitely didn't know how to relate to them. Sherlock had been an enigma fully grown and now he was even more confusing. And Mycroft, well, John had never really had many conversations with the man, unless they were about a case or his brother.

But still, he was going to try. John put on his brave face and walked into the sitting room, taking a seat across from Mycroft, who had taken a seat near the window and was staring unseeingly into the London night.

"Mycroft? Are you sure you're alright?" Again, Mycroft froze for a split second before jerking forward, almost like he was coming out of a trance, and looked back at John apologetically.

"Sorry? No, I'm fine. Fine. Just a bit stir-crazy, I suppose."

John mulled that over for a moment. They were children now, it only made sense that they needed stimulation. And being cooped up in the flat all day probably hadn't helped.

"Well, how about this. Tomorrow we can go out, maybe go to a museum or something? Just a little trip to get out of the flat?" Mycroft gave him an obviously strained smile and nodded, though he didn't look too happy about it. He picked up the book he had been scanning earlier and silently wandered into Sherlock's room.

John waited a moment before he heard Sherlock screech in what sounded like excitement, and for a moment, he was frightened what Sherlock might plan to disrupt while they were out. "Finally!" he shouted, and John could hear him jumping around from his chair as he smiled to himself. Well, at least one brother would be happy tomorrow.

Sherlock stuck his head out of the doorway to his bedroom, face slightly cloudy as he glared in John's direction. "I'm still angry about this situation, but kudos for trying to distract us. Won't work, though, I'm afraid," he sighed, winking in John's direction before disappearing back behind the closed door. John just sighed and leaned further down in his armchair. Well, it was worth a try.


	4. Chapter 4

They woke early, mostly because Sherlock wouldn't let them sleep much past six in the morning. He was far too energized for his own good and going crazy stuck in the flat. He propelled himself onto John's bed to wake him and jumped on Mycroft's chest to shake him into conciousness.

John attempted to make them a filling breakfast with the limited things in the fridge and then they set out. Sherlock would rush forward, realize no one was close enough for comfort, and then run back, grabbing either Mycroft's or John's arm and dragging them forward with him until he lost the contact and would repeat the whole process again.

They arrived at the museum with a small crowd, though because it was a weekday, it wasn't too busy. They shuffled in with a few others and John squatted down to tell Sherlock the rules. He didn't feel like he was being too condescending, since he had had to do the same thing on a few occasions when the boy had been a grown man.

"Alright, Sherlock. You stay with me and Mycroft, understand? You do not wander off on your own and you are not to be rude to the people here. If you do lose us, go to one of the employees and have them announce it. Understand?" Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded, taking John's hand with a grin. John smiled back and patted the boy's curls, threading his other arm with Mycroft's. The teen looked up, confused, before he shrugged off the feeling and let John do as he liked with his arm as he used the other to study the museum map.

They wandered for a few hours, Sherlock jumping from one exhibit to the next, and John found most of his attention drawn to the little mass of curls and energy while Mycroft shuffled along behind them. He looked utterly bored but was loathe to say it.

When this had originally happened, he had not really been planning on museum visits and watching out for his little brother _once again_. He sighed. He could have been at home, behind his lovely wooden desk, working on important issues and having foreign dignitaries shaking beneath his carefully worded letters. He wouldn't have been able to do anything face-to-face, but he would have been able to do enough to retain his position.

The longer they wandered, the more he began to fume beneath his careful composure. This was not what Getting Out Of The Flat was meant to be. It was just too boring. He already knew everything that these exhibits were showing off, and he didn't rightly care one lick about any of it. He glanced in Sherlock's direction and found that the little hellion was beginning to look a bit peaky, slowing down and rubbing at his eyes before showing John yet another fascinating plaque and going off on a ten minute lecture about it. Mycroft just leaned his head back and sighed lowly to himself, hoping that Sherlock would either grow hungry or tired very, very soon and then they could leave this Fortress of Deathly Boredom.

His nose wrinkled up in distaste at his own thoughts. What, was he sixteen now? Oh. He grinned to himself and sighed once again. Now he understood why teenagers seemed to default to moody, angry blobs while forced to do something they found truly detestible.

"John, I'm getting a bit hungry." After a second's pause, he turned to his brother and asked, "Are you hungry, Mycroft?" He asked it as innocently as possible, glancing to his brother for the first time in hours.

"Absolutely starving." He gave his brother a slightly tight grin and followed them out as he smiled for real. Finally, they were _leaving_!

They had an uneventful lunch where Mycroft sat ram-rod straight in his seat, suddenly annoyed and angry for no reason. He didn't even know why he was suddenly grouchy and frowning. Sherlock was yawning while he ate his chips while continuing to talk incessantly and John was watching them both with a tiny smile he was trying to hide behind his cup of coffee.

They left the little cafe soon after and wandered back home. Sherlock raced up the steps and Mycroft followed John up, frowning even deeper now. Even Mycroft felt that teenagers were far too moody, and he hoped Anthea could fix this soon. He didn't think he could go through this stage again, even if he was near the tail-end of the worst of it.

Mycroft flopped down in Sherlock's chair and watched with an unhelpful grin as John tried to coerce Sherlock into taking a nap. The boy seriously looked about ready to drop right then and there, but he was fighting it strongly, stubborn to the last moment, and pushing John away loudly.

"I'm not tired! I don't need a nap. I'm not a toddler." He pouted quite dramatically and ran for cover behind Mycroft's chair. Mycroft, however, was on John's side in this matter. Sherlock had taken naps for years when he was little, until school got in the way. He reached behind the chair and lifted Sherlock into his lap, tugging him close as he struggled.

"Lemme go, Mycroft! I don't wanna take a nap! I'm not even tired." Mycroft just held him until he stopped fussing, stopped fighting him and actually laid his head on Mycroft's shoulder, shifting so he was sitting comfortably in his brother's lap before truly falling asleep, wrapping an arm around his neck.

Mycroft leveled a gloating smile in John's direction and John nodded, clapping quietly. "Bravo, my brave Sherlock-whisperer." Mycroft smiled smugly and stood, taking Sherlock into their room and setting him on the bed, sighing as he looked around. He really, really, _really_, **REALLY** didn't want to be here. John was nice and all, be he needed to think. He needed puzzles and his work and his books. What he _didn't need_ was to be looking after his baby brother again, cleaning up after him, making sure he didn't maim himself, didn't do any permanent damage to anything important. He didn't _want_ to do this all again.

John came in to check on them a few minutes later and motioned for Mycroft to follow him to the kitchen. As he sat, Mycroft was presented with a cup of tea as John took the seat opposite him. They each played with their cups but neither really wanted them. Finally, John set his down and sighed, long and slow.

"I noticed you were a bit quiet at the museum. Not really your cup of tea?" John asked, smiling as he glanced down at the table, chuckling dumbly at his little joke. Mycroft could feel his face tightening, but he tried to keep himself neutral.

"It was a bit boring," he allowed, fiddling with the handle to the mug. "Sherlock seemed to enjoy it, though."

John looked around the room randomly, seemingly looking for something before he turned his eyes back to Mycroft. "I'm trying. I really am trying to make you both happy. I know this isn't going to be fun for anyone, but I want you to be happy. At least, to try. I'm not going to push anything, but I would like it if you tried as well. Or at least told me the truth about things. If you're not having fun, we can go somewhere else. Not everything's got to be about Sherlock." John smiled wide down at Mycroft. The teen, for his part, was now very uncomfortable. His whole life had revolved around his little brother. If Sherlock wasn't happy, then God-forbid anyone else have the right to be happy.

"Sorry. I'm just not that good at telling the truth when it comes to that sort of thing." There, that was good enough to get John off his back for a while, right?

"Oh, come off it, Mycroft. You're a really terrible liar." Apparently not, then. "Your unhappiness was painted all over your face as we walked around today. I would just like a bit of honesty."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You've lived with Sherlock long enough to know that we do not give our true feelings very easily. Or rather, we do. But I have learned not to show my feelings; it saves a lot of time." He felt like he might be saying too much at once, but John was staring at him, really looking at him, and it was making him uncomfortable. "What?" he snarled, his arms flying up protectively around his chest.

"You do not need to hide in this house, do you understand? I'm not going to get angry with you for telling me the truth. I want you to. There will be no lying here, yes?"

Mycroft's face screwed up in delayed anger. Who did John think he was, a shrink? His father? He couldn't make him do anything he didn't want to. Mycroft caught himself before he voiced his opinions, and damned this teenage body. Youth definitely came with a price. "Sorry. Whatever you say."

He stood and wandered down the stairs, to the door. Confused, John followed him down and found him sitting on the stoop, his hands hanging between his knees and his breathing coming in quick bouts. Giving him some space, John went back upstairs to check on Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

"Mycroft! Mycroft, John said we could actually leave the flat by ourselves today." Sherlock jumped on their bed, which unconvieniently still housed Mycroft, and waited for his brother to pay attention to him. "He's got to go to work, but he said we could do something as long as we let him know where we are. Mycroft, _wake up!_ Aren't you tired of being stuck here, yet?" Sherlock knew he was being obnoxious, but he didn't really care. He needed to have _something_ to do before his brain began to rot.

A groan from the blankets told Sherlock Mycroft was still alive, but was unwilling to get up just yet. "Where do you think we should go? The park seems boring. As does the library. _My-_croft!" Sherlock sing-songed, shoving at the Mycroft-shaped lump on the bed. Finally, Mycroft had had enough and sat up, yawning widely.

"Alright, I'm up. Where do you want to go?" Sherlock bounced with excitement and flopped against the bed, thinking.

"I take it back. We should go to the park. And then lunch? Where else should we go?"

"Yes, we can do that. I have to do some errands myself, but that should be fine, little brother." Sherlock sighed in contentment and flew from the room, shouting to John that Mycroft had said yes.

Mycroft was regretting saying yes. Sherlock had run off three times and nearly given Mycroft multiple panic attacks. They were now in a bookstore that Mycroft used to frequent when he had been older. He was looking for something to keep him occupied at the flat. Sherlock came up to him with wide eyes and a pleading expression, holding a leather bound book to his chest. Mycroft sighed and nodded, picking a book off the shelf for himself and led Sherlock to the checkout.

Sherlock held Mycroft's hand, only because Mycroft had threatened to buy a leash if he wandered away one more time. They were home now and Sherlock dropped his brother's hand to run upstairs to show John his new acquisition.

Mycroft followed at a slower pace, dragging his feet. No matter how hard he tried, he just wasn't happy here. Sherlock being somewhat kind to him only made him feel so good for so long. And eventually, the little bugger would drop into a foul mood and rip him to shreds. The only solace he got out of the situation was that it was not supposed to be permanent. Anthea was working hard to find a solution to their age problem.

When he walked through the door, John looked up from the book Sherlock had thrust in his face and smiled. Sherlock huffed at being ignored and clambored up into John's lap instead, stealing his attention again. Mycroft rolled his eyes and walked away, deciding to hide away in their room until dinner. Maybe they would get the message and leave him alone.

God, he hated this.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft wandered off on his own a few days later when Sherlock had been forbidden from leaving the flat by John after a fiasco at Tesco's. Mycroft was alright with wandering London by himself, he just wasn't sure where he wanted to go. He left early in the morning and just wandered, letting his feet lead him away.

He found that no matter where he went, he wasn't happy. He wanted his job, his office, people afraid of him, his amazing secretary. His clean, organized flat that he hadn't set foot in since this had all started. God, the government was probably dissolving into chaos without him.

Somehow, he wound up in front of his old office, just standing there and staring. He knew he didn't dare to go inside in case someone saw him. When people he recognized started to file out of the building he sighed and turned around, heading back towards the flat.

If he was lucky, maybe John might actually be able to cheer him up for a bit.

Anthea had apparently called in his absence, and John explained the situation to him very carefully. Mycroft pulled away from his brother and John then, heaving giant breathes as he tried to control his temper. He knew he had one, that's why he always strived for complete control, detachment, as an adult. But these hormones, these feelings, this blinding anger. It took over and dulled his thought process, made him an illiterate idiot for hours at a time until he took control again.

Just to pick up the broken pieces he had left behind him.

But he couldn't really care about that right now. Now, all that flashed through his brain was a fire red anger and all the injustices he felt towards himself. All the slights, all the hate, the sneers and snickering behind his back.

"It isn't fair!" he shouted, whirling and glaring at his brother and John. "I've never been happy in this life, because of _him_, and now I have to re-live the hardest part of it just because of _him_! 'Protect Sherlock, watch out for Sherlock, make sure he doesn't get into trouble, Mycroft!'" he shouted in a mock-regal tone. Sherlock flinched, looking down at his feet. Mycroft switched tones and continued on. "'I don't _care_ if you don't want to, young man! I don't _care_ if you need to study, your brother needs to be watched and I'm too damned drunk to do it. I don't care about your friends or your studies or the fact _that you're trying to make a decent life for yourself_! Just, watch Sherlock!'"

Mycroft glared at his little brother, his face a snarl of anger and pain. "This is all your fault, Sherlock. Everything. I wish that I had just left you alone when you were at Uni like you asked. I wish I had!"

John looked down, confused. "What happened at Uni?" he asked the little boy, and Sherlock took a steadying breath before he muttered, "I almost died. Drugs."

John threw his head back and sighed. Why? Why did he have to have two boys with such massive intellects and the emotional awareness of twigs?

"Mycroft, apologize to your brother and then go to your room. Cool off." That just seemed to send Mycroft further off the cliff.

"Oh, God. It's happening again. Already! Do I not get to have any rest in this life? Any peace at all? Is it so much to fucking ask to be first priority for just a_ little _while? Just once?"

Mycroft turned on his heel and stormed down the stairs, out the door, and down the street. John called after him but Mycroft ignored him, quite elegantly replying with a harsh, "PISS OFF!" And then they were at the window, watching him stalk away, kicking at the pavement, his hands flying to his face and then back to his pockets and then back to his face.

As they pulled away from the window, John realized Sherlock was now crying as well, though attempting to hide it. Crouching down, John cleaned Sherlock's face off and gave him a world-weary sigh. "Alright, Sherlock. He was just angry, it's understandable. You remember being sixteen, right?" Sherlock's eyes widened and he nodded, looking sick. "Well, he just feels a little unloved right now. Scared. He'll come back when he's cooled off and then we can show him just how wrong he is. Why he doesn't need to be afraid. Agreed?"

Sherlock nodded, though he still didn't look too happy about his brother screaming and storming away. The rain pouring down outside didn't help his worry any, either. He took up a perch at the window, waiting for his brother to come back, even set out a clock beside him to see just how long he would try to stay away.

_He forgot his umbrella,_ Sherlock thought sullenly as he stared at the grey street below.

He watched the scene play out through the CCTV cameras. Watched with glee as Mycroft stormed away, crying angry tears. Then he saw Sherlock's worried little face appear in the window and watch his brother storm away.

Employing that doctor had been his best idea yet. Though the scenario hadn't been expected, the result was absolutely _brilliant_.

This was just _perfect_. Only a little more time for them to stew in their mutual resentments, and his plan would resolve itself.

He was simply _ecstatic_.

No, the Holmes boys would never forget about him again.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft wasn't sure where he was planning to go. On a whim, his feet took him near his old office once more, this time climbing the steps, closing his door behind him as he sunk behind his desk, letting out a pent-up breath and rubbing at his red-rimmed eyes, exhausted and spent. He heard his door open and close but he couldn't bother to open his eyes and see who it was. A soft hand landed on his shoulder and he cracked an eye open.

It was his faithful assistant, Anthea. Well, that was the name she went by, but it was by no means her real one. Secretly, Mycroft had always found her oddly entertaining and extremely interesting. Always a mystery, this one.

He looked up at her, suddenly feeling very broken indeed and she grimmaced, rubbing her thumb up and down his shoulder.

"Oh, Mycroft. I see he told you." Her voice was even, but it was also drenched in a quiet sadness. Pity. His face screwed up in anger once more. Pity? Pity! How dare she.

"I'm fine; get away. I'll leave soon, I just needed to get out for a bit." When she didn't get up and leave him, he pushed her away lightly. He didn't want to hurt her, too. "What do you want? I said I'm fine; you can leave."

"What's wrong, Mycroft? You never get this emotional." He could feel himself pouting, and for a moment, he truly felt sixteen. Sixteen and frightened and lost and hurt and oh so very angry.

"It's happening again," he mumbled, his eyes falling shut against another onslaught of tears. He couldn't cry in front of her. She had always seen him as the strongest of the strong.

"What, dear? What's happening?" After a long moment of silence, she took his hand and smiled gently. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on."

After a long moment, he explained. "It's going to be just like our childhood. I will be stuck babysitting Sherlock his entire life and there will be no time for me and I'll just become a robot, like before. The Ice Man," he said with a sneer. "I'll be pushed to the back while he shines and destroys himself and no one will care what I do and no one cares now, anyway, and I don't think I can bear it. He'll tear his world down around himself and I'll be blamed for it all." His fingers were tapping sporadically on the arm of the chair as he bit his lip, forbidding himself to cry.

Anthea ran a hand through his hair and then down his cheek, wiping away the few tears still streaking down his face. "What's your problem with John?" she asked, leading him towards a conclusion.

A level stare was thrown towards her, but she just smiled helpfully and he sighed. "He was Sherlock's friend, before. He barely ever spoke to me unless I instigated it, and even then it was either _about_ Sherlock or a case _for_ him." Mycroft felt his eyes darting around the room, never settling for too long in one spot. "He doesn't care about me. I just get in the way. Or I'm useful in keeping Sherlock under control. But he doesn't care, he doesn't want me, he doesn't need me around. I'm useless, and no one cares. I'm not _happy_."

He knew he sounded like he was only pitying himself, moaning and groaning about things that no one cared about, but he couldn't help himself. He needed someone to listen to him.

Anthea nodded, taking Mycroft's hand once more, and dragged him out the room behind her. He felt himself running after her and didn't really care that he didn't know where they were going.

She tugged him into a car and they sat in silence while they drove through London. He was content at her side until they pulled up at 221B and he realized he was going back.

"No! No, I don't want to. They'll be angry. I said, I said some things I shouldn't have. Please, Anthea." Oh, God. And now he was begging. He was spiraling down into Hell itself at this rate.

"It's alright, Mycroft. Come along." Tugging on his hand, he had no choice but to follow her up the steps and stand behind her, pitiful and deflated.

"Go apologize to Sherlock, and stay in the room. No eavesdropping." His eyes were giant but he nodded and shuffled down the hallway, slipping into their room quietly.

Once she was satisfied that he wasn't listening in, Anthea turned on John, the very picture of anger and vengeance. John took a step back, frightened for a slight moment of what she might do to him.

"Dr. Watson, there is something you need to understand about Mycroft Holmes. He is very brilliant, very wonderful, and very capable of _feelings_. He likes to act as if he is made of ice, but that's never been true. That boy is frightened that he is going to be pushed under the rug and have to stand in the shadow of his brother _once again_. He only wants to be treated just as good as Sherlock. He wants someone to care that he is smart too, that he knows what he's doing. He wants you to care just as much about him as you do about Sherlock." On the outside she seemed so calm, fragile even. But her voice was powerful, ringing with a deep, protective anger that wouldn't think twice about slicing him to pieces.

She paused, looking the stunned doctor up and down. "He understands that you were friends with Sherlock before this happened, and that's why you're closer to him now, but his brain is that of a child. He sees your preference and all he can comprehend is that you care more for that little boy than you ever will for him."

John nodded, a sudden pit forming in his stomach at the realization. It felt like his heart was slowly sinking to his feet. "I never wanted to make him feel that way. It's very hard. To be equal, with them. I don't know him as well. I don't know how to do this properly. I'm not that good with kids anyway, and no one's good with teenagers. But I'm trying, I really am. I'm trying to talk to him, to get him to talk to me, but he's stubborn and I feel like we keep getting further and further from where I want to be with him after every conversation."

Anthea nodded, studying the floor, her eyes searching for something. "I'm going to say goodbye, and then I'll be off. Keep trying." She passed him and stopped in the doorway, flicking her hair, her eyes dangerous and glittering. "But try harder."

She walked down the hallway to the door at the end and peeked in carefully. "I'm leaving now, Mycroft. Be smart, alright?" He nodded from his seat at the desk and quickly got to his feet, almost running to cling to her solid frame.

"Thank you," he mumbled, and she just smiled, running a hand down his back.

They broke apart and she gave him one last smile before she turned and walked away. Mycroft took a deep breath and then turned back to his seat, but Sherlock was now up and staring at him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, worry coating his words as he stared at Mycroft in confusion.

Mycroft took a moment to think before he smiled, nodding. "Of course. I really am sorry I yelled at you two, Sherlock. I never should have said those things." Sherlock walked up to his big brother and wrapped his arms around him, squeezing tight, allowing the embrace for Mycroft's sake and, secretly, for himself as well. He wasn't quite sure what he would do if Mycroft had truly never come back.

"I don't mind. You needed to yell. I'm. . . I'm sorry we made you that angry. I had longer to get used to the fact. Anthea told me first." Mycroft sighed, running a hand through Sherlock's curls, curling around him.

"You're both too good for me," Mycroft whispered, knocking his head against Sherlock's. He hadn't expected Sherlock to hear him, much less respond.

"Don't say that." Sherlock reared back, looking appaled. "You're the best, Mycroft. Don't you dare say anything to the contrary." Sherlock leaned forward and planted a small kiss to his brother's cheek, hopping back quickly with a giggle as he got out of range. "And you shan't tell anyone I said that, either; I know where you sleep." Mycroft grinned and began running after Sherlock, suddenly feeling infinitely better.

However, a knock at the door broke the moment; made them freeze and turn to face John.


	8. Chapter 8

The knock at the door interrupted their frantic chase around the room, and Mycroft stopped dead still, nailed to the floor by John's intense stare. "I was hoping to have a word, Mycroft." The teenager frowned, set his face, and followed John out to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock craning his neck, pouting at being left out once again. They sat uneasily, Mycroft keeping his eyes low, and John trying to figure out just what he wanted to say.

"I'm sorry. About earlier. I shouldn't have," Mycroft faltered, fighting for his words through the lump in his throat. He really just couldn't do anything right, could he?

John reached across the terrible expanse of table between them and took Mycroft's hand, running his thumbs over the smaller fingers. "I'm not happy with how you acted, but I understand why you did what you did. That news would be huge for anybody. Next time, though, why don't you try calming down before you start talking? That way we can skip the running away and screaming bit and get right to what's bothering you."

Mycroft nodded, biting his lip and trying to pry his hand away. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," he mumbled, just loud enough to be almost heard.

Suddenly, John pushed away from the table, jerking Mycroft up with him. For a moment, Mycroft thought he was angry, but then he was being crushed against John's chest.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. I am so, so sorry that I made you feel that way. I want you to know that I'll try, that I am trying to understand, to get to know you." Mycroft nodded, burying his face in John's neck, feeling stupid for needing the comfort, but he really, truly needed it.

To be told he mattered.

"I care about you just like I care about Sherlock. I would never let you two be hurt, be sad, be unhappy. Please, just stay here. Alright? You know we're trying."

Mycroft nodded, pulling away and rubbing at his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, then quickly brushed past him and retreated to his room as quickly as he could, clicking the door shut behind him, oblivious to Sherlock staring intently at him from the desk.

That night, Mycroft curled around Sherlock protectively, hugging him to his chest and sighing contently when his baby brother didn't push him away. His eyes had gotten used to the dark some time ago, and he just laid there in bed for hours staring at Sherlock.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbled as he shifted in bed, pushing down further to rest face-to-face with his brother. He had assumed Sherlock was sleeping as well, but the little eyes flickered open after his whispered admission and stared him down.

"There's no need. And I know how you hate repeating yourself, so stop. It's fine, it's all. . . fine." Sherlock rolled over and placed his back to Mycroft, mumbling as he tried to go back to sleep. "Now shut up and sleep, I'm sure John's in bed planing 'family bonding activities' to get you to trust him and stop all this useless arguing."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock's attempt to lighten the mood, then realized he might not be joking.

"Wait, is he actually doing that? I don't think so, it's not going to happen."

Sherlock grinned into his pillow and fell asleep to the sounds of his brother grumbling over the coming activities of the morning.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft woke to an empty bed and, surprisingly, an empty flat. He wandered around, looking for a note or some reason that John and Sherlock weren't there. He even went so far as to walk downstairs and ask a surprised Mrs. Hudson if she had seen them yet.

"Oh, dear. I thought you knew. John had to take Sherlock in to Scotland Yard today. To give his statement about, you know, your situation. I would've thought John would take you both at the same time." She looked behind Mycroft's slumped shoulder at the clock and grinned lovingly. "Why don't you come in for breakfast, dear? It's no trouble."

Mycroft looked back up at the stairs and thought of how empty the flat seemed without any one else there, and nodded, accepting Mrs. Hudson's leading arm as she tugged him into her cluttered flat.

She set him up with a cup of tea, a stack of toast, and a plate of pancakes before sitting down herself. She gave him a broad smile and he returned it timidly, raising his mug to his lips and glancing around the room, feeling like doing the mental equivalent of twiddling his thumbs.

Sherlock held onto John's hand with a death grip, his face set in grim determination as he walked with John into Lestrade's office. He was trembling just slightly; he didn't want to be here, didn't want to have to go through everything again. Especially because Mycroft wasn't here with him this time. Sherlock had wanted him to come, too, but John had insisted that he needed his sleep, and that they would probably be back before he even realized they were gone.

"Alright, Sherlock. We'll make this as quick as possible, yeah?" Lestrade shuffled some papers on his desk and then took up his pen, tilting his head to meet Sherlock's gaze. "It's okay, Sherlock. We have our man, he can't hurt you or anyone else, so don't worry." He gave Sherlock a shaky smile and Sherlock nodded, still refusing to let go of John.

His friend sat down and lifted Sherlock into his lap, wrapping supportive arms around his stomach. The reaction was immediate as Sherlock melted into the touch, curling up beneath John's arms.

Lestrade seemed to soften at the embrace and smiled again, sadder this time. "Alright, Sherlock. Run us through what happened, yeah? From the beginning."

Sherlock let out a shaky breath and nodded. "I was on my way to meet John. Something hit my head from behind and I fell down, and I felt someone tugging me into a car. They drugged me and I passed out, and when I woke up I was in a hospital bed, strapped down. Mycroft was there, and he was yelling at the doctor, but he was crazy, grinning all big and mad, and he ignored Mycroft." Sherlock turned a serious eye to Lestrade. "_No one_ ignores Mycroft." Lestrade nodded in understanding, his eyes slightly widening as Sherlock continued. "They stuck me with something and I passed out again. When I woke up, I felt sick and . . . _wrong_. Mycroft was still asleep and we were alone, so I made noise to try and get his attention. He finally woke up and we stuck together until the police found us. Those doctors left us alone in a kitchen; they really must have been fools."

John's arms tightened around Sherlock and he sighed, releasing the anger building up in him with a heavy sigh. "Mycroft will corroborate. But he's sleeping right now. We really should be getting back to him." Sherlock twisted in John's lap and turned pleading eyes on him, and John nodded, hefting Sherlock up on his hip. Sherlock curled up in his arms and buried his face in John's shoulder.

"Thanks John, Sherlock," Lestrade said, scribbling in data as they moved to leave. "Don't forget I'll need to talk to Mycroft eventually, as well." John nodded and left, feeling Sherlock vibrating against him, silently urging him to hurry back home.

John really hoped they wouldn't need therapy to deal with all of this. Being kidnapped and experimented on, even for such a short amount of time, could be dangerous, leave behind imprints that could hinder them later on.

This fidgiting was his first sign something might be off. Sherlock and Mycroft had never been clingy with each other before, but since their return, Sherlock was rarely apart from his brother. If he was, it was either not his choice or he was content with John for the moment.

"You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?" he asked Sherlock in the cab back to Baker Street. Sherlock shifted in his seat, looking out the window, ignoring John in favor of watching the buildings pass by. John sighed and frowned, wondering if Lestrade or Mike knew any good child therapists.

When they got home, Sherlock shimmied down from John's grip and rushed upstairs, throwing open doors until he returned back to the kitchen, a deep, confused frown on his face.

"I can't find Mycroft," Sherlock whispered, his brows furrowing as he glanced warily at the door. "They didn't, they didn't come back for us, did they?"

John rushed to the door and looked for any sign of forced entry or a struggle, but there was nothing. "Calm down Sherlock, I'm sure he's fine." John dialed Mycroft's cell and sighed when he heard it ringing from the sitting room. Sherlock ran after it and fetched it from beneath the sofa, where it had ended up after a tussle a few days before.

"Alright, Sherlock. Go downstairs and see if Mrs. Husdon has," he began, but then the door was opening and Mycroft was walking in, a genuine smile on his face as Mrs. Hudson shooed him in with a grin, moving to putter around their kitchen.

"For Christ's sake, Mycroft! You had us scared." Mycroft looked shocked for a moment, but then he was rolling his eyes and moving to flop down in Sherlock's chair, which was quickly becoming his-and-Sherlock's chair.

"Um, sorry. But I'm not the one that disappeared from the flat with Sherlock and didn't leave any kind of note. I was worried first." John rolled his shoulders and dropped the conversation after a sigh and an apology. Sherlock walked close to his brother, leaning on the arm of the chair to peer into his face, and then flopped down at his feet.

Mycroft gave Sherlock an unimpressed look and settled further into the cool leather, his calm demeanor making him pliant and loose. He heard Sherlock moving about on the floor at his feet and John and Mrs. Hudson murmuring together in the kitchen, most likely talking about him but he really couldn't care less, and finally felt like this was home. That this was where he belonged. He had people that cared if he was there or not and people who would look out for him, take care of him when he needed it, love him. He was truly happy for the first time in a very long time.


	10. Chapter 10

A week passed uneventfully, everyone trying to adjust to the still-new living arrangements and come to terms with a cure being impossible. The boys still shared a room and a bed, but Sherlock was starting to have problems. It was the middle of the night when the younger boy woke up sweating and thrashing, his eyes wild and heart racing. He checked to make sure Mycroft was still beside him and sighed when he saw his brother's chest rising and falling. He couldn't believe he was actually thinking of clutching onto his arm, but he felt he really had no choice. Tentatively, Sherlock reached out and grabbed Mycroft's arm, holding on tight and snuggling beneath it so he was pressed close against his side. Mycroft twitched in his sleep but didn't wake.

His dream had truly frightened him, but he wasn't going to say a word. Mycroft would eventually wake to a trembling brother at his side, but still Sherlock would refuse to say what had scared him so. He swore it, under his breath, that he wouldn't say a word. This was a weakness, a stupid, childish fear that the doctor would return, do more terrible things to them, take them away. He couldn't bear having to voice his insane fears, so he kept quiet and waited for the sun to rise and stream in through the window shades.

Mycroft finally woke at seven and looked down at what was causing the pressure on his arm. Sherlock was there, holding tight, looking exhausted and jumpy, twitching slightly and fidgiting.

"Sherlock?" he asked, rubbing his eyes to see his brother better. Sherlock sat up with him and let go of his arm, but refused to meet his eyes. Mycroft lifted his chin up and inspected his brother's face, noting the slight purple coloring beneath his eyes, how pale he seemed, how sweaty. "Did you have a bad dream?" he asked quietly, checking Sherlock's pulse as he asked the question. He heart rate picked up quickly, but his face never changed as he brought glassy eyes up to meet Mycroft's.

Sighing, Mycroft nodded and stood, motioning for Sherlock to do the same. He followed suit and Mycroft led him out of the room, his long fingered hand around Sherlock's tiny fist. John was already in the kitchen, puttering around making breakfast. He looked up and smiled at their entrance, but then seemed to really see them and became worried.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" He knelt down in front of his friend and ran medically trained hands over important areas, looking for injuries. "Are you alright? You look like death."

Mycroft moved his hand to Sherlock's shoulder and gripped it lightly. "I believe he had a bad dream and is refusing to talk about it." Sherlock turned and looked up at his brother, a scowl set on his face. Mycroft just rolled his eyes and turned back to John. "He used to do this all the time. He was afraid bad dreams were seen as him being stupid, childish, even though he had every right to be frightened. This began when he was merely four."

John nodded and turned back to Sherlock, holding his forearms and rubbing up and down, giving him a warm smile. "Sherlock, I asked if you would tell me if something was wrong. Can you tell me now? What's wrong?"

Sherlock's face scrunched up in a scowl and he spoke his first words of the morning. "I am _fine_. Mycroft seems to think I am not, but I am. Simply tired because I did not sleep well, that's all."

John rose a knowing eyebrow but allowed the statement to pass, hoping that this might actually help him spring the news he had been dreading all morning. "Actually, I've got something to tell you two. Well, two things, really."

He herded them toward the table and set breakfast out for them before taking a seat himself, sipping at his tea before jumping into the conversation. Both boys were staring at him, half-eaten food still sitting before them, Sherlock with a piece of toast in his fist and Mycroft with a mug of tea raised to his lips.

"Well, I'll tell you the less-explosive piece of the news first. I thought since this is permanent and that I really can't keep you both occupied at all hours of the day, every day, forever, that I would enroll you both in school." The affronted looks he was given almost made him start giggling, but he held it back. "I've explained I have two brilliant boys and they are prepared for your biting tongues and massive intellects. So don't worry about having to deal with idiots all the time, I'm sure it will be fine."

Sherlock was glaring at John and Mycroft was simply openly gawping at him. "Well, after that bombshell, what the hell could be the other news? The _more_-explosive news?" Sherlock bit out, throwing his toast down on his plate.

"Calm down, Sherlock. You'll be fine. But, I, uh, got appointments for you two for therapy." Again the angry glares were back, and Sherlock seemed to be literally fuming now. "Now, stop that," John admonished. "I've seen how you both are handling this, and it is a massive change, and I thought that if you won't talk to me about the important stuff, such as bad dreams," he said, glancing down at Sherlock, who looked duly chastised, "then you might talk to someone else. They've agreed to meet with you two seperately every Tuesday. First appointment is this week."

Both boys looked shaken and mindblown, but also very unhappy. John suddenly felt a gnawing bite in his stomach, feeling he might have made the wrong decisions. "Come on," he said, shakily, "it'll be fine. You'll both do brilliantly. I'm not trying to push you out of the flat or anything, I just thought maybe you needed to get out a bit more. And start talking about what's happened to you with someone trained to help with it." Mycroft looked like he might be sick and Sherlock looked like he was ready to throw himself out of the window.

Before John could get in another word, both boys said at the same time, "May I be excused, John?" and quickly got up after a swift look at each other. They both ran down the stairs and John heard Mrs. Hudson's surprised voice echo up the stairs and then her door quickly shutting.

He sighed but at least he knew where they were. They had found sanctuary in Mrs. Hudson's flat, with her grandmotherly ways and endless supply of cookies and running commentary of helpful or not-so-helpful advice.

"We aren't children! And a doctor? He wants us to see a doctor." Sherlock was fuming in one of the overstuffed chairs in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, jamming cookies in his mouth as his anger grew. "I mean, really, he should know better by now."

Mycroft leveled a look at the cookies quickly disappearing and sighed, kicking his feet up on the table. "He's just doing what he thinks is best. I fear it was inevitable. But I wish he would have asked our opinions, first." Sherlock nodded and demolished another cookie, bitting into it angrily.

"Oh, dear. What's our doctor done now?" They both turned to look at Mrs. Hudson, guilt flashing across their faces as they shifted in their seats.

"He wants to send us to school. And _therapy_. We don't want to," Sherlock whined, leaning further into his seat.

"I'm sure you'll both have fun at school. And therapy can only help. He's just trying to watch out for you two. Now, I can hear him pacing around up there and I'm sure he's worried you both hate him right now. So why don't you go back on up and make up? Hmm?"

She was very persuasive and sent the boys upstairs after clutching them both to her in tight hugs. The brothers had no choice but to go back upstairs after that, feeling childish and silly for storming out like they had. John looked up from his laptop and slowly smiled when he heard them come back. "What are you looking at?" Sherlock asked, curiosity piqued despite himself as he stepped heavily into the room behind Mycroft.

"The school's website. I thought once you both cooled down that you would like to check it out." He twirled the laptop around to show them and they found themselves being drawn forward. Mycroft studied the glossy pictures and the eloquent wording of the description of the grounds. He was glad it wasn't a boarding school, rather located in central London, quite close to the flat, actually. Sherlock refused to read anything, instead staring at the bright colored pictures of smiling school children and happy teachers.

"It looks nice," Mycroft said slowly, not quite happy that he was forced to admit it. If he had had children himself, this would have been one of his first options. Sherlock glared at him as if he had just abandoned him on the side of the road.

"We don't _need_ school," Sherlock whined, backing away from his brother and John, feeling a sickness pulling at his belly. John turned sympathetic eyes his way, and they only made him feel worse for his reaction. "We don't need therapy, either. There's nothing wrong with us." His bottom lip was wobbling in anger and his eyes were pricking with tears he wouldn't allow to fall. John was quickly becoming just another adult that thought they were oddities, creatures that had just too many problems to care about.

"Sherlock," John whispered, reaching for the little boy and pulling him in close. "I know there's nothing wrong with you two. I never said there was. But you need to talk to someone about what's happened. It will help you later on, I promise." John ran his hand up and down Sherlock's shoulder and sent Mycroft a sympathetic look, as well, when he noticed the teen's awkward shuffling.

Sherlock buried his face in John's jumper and felt like an idiot. If he had just told them about his stupid, illogical dream then they wouldn't have to go to therapy, and they wouldn't have to talk to a stranger about things they could barely talk to _John_ about.

"It's all gonna be okay, boys. I promise. Yeah?" John tugged Mycroft in for a hug as well and crushed Sherlock closer to his chest. Mycroft sighed dramatically but rested his chin on John's other shoulder.

School started the next week, and he needed to prepare them for it.


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft checked his appearance in the mirror for what felt like the hundreth time that morning. He tugged on his jacket, straightened his tie, combed his fingers through his short hair. Sherlock was sulking around behind him, dressed similiarly but in much smaller sizes. His tie was askew and his shorts hiked up due to the heat. Without his jacket, he wore a short sleeved shirt and looked quite rumpled as he rolled around on the bed.

"Sherlock, you need to at least look a bit presentable. It's your first day, as well. Good first impressions and all that. We don't want to repeat what happened back then, right?" Sherlock shivered and frowned, remembering how much he had hated school as a child. The other children were stupid and annoying and mean, and he had hated them all.

He turned and pulled Sherlock to his feet, then went about straightening his tie and tugging his shirt down to release the wrinkles. "Here," Mycroft said, helping Sherlock shrug into his jacket.

"But it's hot," Sherlock mumbled, tugging at the restricting material. Mycroft just grinned and buttoned it for him, then ruffled his hair.

They walked together out to the kitchen, Mycroft tall and confidant yet still a bit awkward, and Sherlock scowling and small, pouting at his morning cereal. John was rushing around, packing lunches and bags and trying to ready himself, as well. Once he dropped them off at the school, he was beginning his new job. Sarah had put in a good word for him and gotten him a job at a local A&E. He was excited for the fast pace and adrenaline and having something new to do.

"Alright boys," he announced, handing a paper sack to each boy, "lunches. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes, we'll eat quick, and we need to be out the door in a half hour." They nodded and John continued rushing around, trying to prepare himself for the day.

Sherlock picked at his food and Mycroft shoveled it down. John could tell Sherlock was dreading going to school, but he could also tell Mycroft was oddly excited for it. They were all becoming tired of being cooped up in the house, he admitted to himself, and this would be good for them.

Glancing down at his watch, John sucked in a deep breath and smiled at the boys. "Alright, time to go!" His forced cheer had the boys raising identical eyebrows at him, but John just ignored them and ushered them out the door.

John walked them to the school gates. Sherlock held his hand tightly, staring up at the modern building with wide eyes. Mycroft, standing tall beside John, was looking up at the school with a mix of horror and excitement.

"Alright, boys. You both be good and have fun today. And go straight home after school, yes? I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will have a snack ready when you get there." John leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, illiciting a scowl from the boy, which John ignored completely. Turning to Mycroft, John grinned and tugged him into a hug, clapping him a few times on the back.

As he drew back, Mycroft took Sherlock's hand and gave John a curt nod, his face taking on a stoic mask. John watched as they walked up the steps to the school and disappeared behind the doors, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as he turned to head toward the hospital.

"And then the teacher told us about polar bears! I never realized how amazing they are, before. Mycroft, did we learn about polar bears when we were kids the first time around? I don't remember talking about them then." Sherlock trailed off as he glanced up at his big brother, who was staring intently down at a textbook before him, nodding to Sherlock's poetic waxing about polar bears. When he realized how silent the room had become, the older boy glanced up in confusion.

"Sorry, you were saying?" With his full attention back, Sherlock jumped back into his recounting of his day. Once he had settled himself in, it seemed Sherlock had been just fine. Mycroft had found it a bit more difficult. His classes were challenging, nothing extraordinarily hard, but they made him think, all the same. And the load of homework he had acquired after only one day of classes was enough to drown beneath already.

Mrs. Hudson bustled around them happily, smiling lovingly down at them as she set tea and biscuits down in front of them. They took what they wanted without a second thought, Sherlock not even pausing in his talking to stuff the food in his mouth.

They had been home for little over an hour when John burst through the door, an exhausted smile stretching across his face. "How was school, boys?"

Sherlock beamed up at him from his place at the table and started his stories all over again, and Mycroft rolled his eyes as he heard the story of Suzie Ortiz stealing Tom Marcove's library book at the table across from Sherlock's desk for the second time that day. John, for his part, was indulgently watching Sherlock as he gestured about throughout the story, nearly knocking his tea over in the process.

When Sherlock paused for breath, John held up a hand and grinned, picking up the dishes to bring back into the kitchen for Mrs. Hudson. "I think it's time we went back upstairs. I'll start dinner, boys, and you can keep going at your homework."

They grumbled but went upstairs, Mycroft setting himself up at the kitchen table with his mountain of books and papers and Sherlock perched at his side, glancing through the complex equations Mycroft was muddling through. It was easy enough work, but it was annoyingly time-consuming.

As John set food down in front of them, the boys settled down and Mycroft happily shoved his work away. "How was your day then, Mycroft?"

Grimmacing, Mycroft nodded. "It wasn't really what I remembered it being. But it wasn't terrible. The work is easy enough but still slightly challenging. It'll kill some time, at least."

John nodded along and they fell into easy silence, filled with them stuffing their mouths. When they finished, John stepped up to the sink and called over his shoulder. "Don't forget, you've both got appointments after school tomorrow. I'll pick you up after school and we'll catch a taxi to the office, alright?" The boys grumbled unintelligibly and wandered away, most likely to ready for bed.

When John finished the dishes, he followed the sound of their voices to their room, pushing the door open lightly and perching on the desk. "Everything okay, kids?" Mycroft continued to button up his pyjama top and nodded, while Sherlock wrestled himself into his trousers before throwing himself at the bed.

"Well, best get an early night. I'm sure today was exhausting. Don't stay up studying all night, Mycroft." The boy nodded and settled in the desk chair, sliding a thick tome in front of his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snuggled down in the bed, knowing Mycroft would join him when he finished whatever it was he was studying so closely. John smiled and kissed the crown of Mycroft's head before tucking Sherlock in snuggly. "Night, boys."

He left them then, and Mycroft let out a sigh. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the bed for a few long minutes and finally sighed, as well. "Put the book away and go to bed," he grumbled, tugging the pillow over his eyes, trying to block out the light.

Mycroft did as he asked and slid in beside his brother, shoving Sherlock's pillow off his face as he clicked the light off. Sherlock waited a few long moments before lowering the pillow and leaning into Mycroft's chest.

"So how was your day, really?" Sherlock asked quietly. Mycroft sighed at his brother's ability to see through his defenses so easily.

"It wasn't as bad as you're no doubt thinking. Nothing like back then. The children have definitely changed, but I'm not sure yet if it's for the best or not. They definitely seem less vicious. But they go about things completely differently, and I'm not sure I fit in. I'm definitely easy to spot in the crowd."

Sherlock sniffed with a scowl and turned onto his back. "Do you feel like you've forgotten things? I don't remember much about polar bears, but we talked about them today in class and they seemed to become the most amazing thing I'd ever heard of before. Do you think it might be a side-effect of the injection?"

Mycroft stiffened and groaned. "I noticed it, too. To tell the truth, that's why I've been at those books since we got home. I don't remember half of what's in there, and I can't possibly fall behind now. I was an adult two months ago, for God's sake! I should know all this stuff."

After a long silent moment, Sherlock let out a long puff of air. "Well, I guess it'll help us blend in if we don't know absolutely everything they're teaching. We won't be called progidies and held up on pedestals, we'll just be Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, for once."

Mycroft smiled against Sherlock's curls, taking comfort in the simple idea. Yes, he could live with just being Mycroft Holmes for once. Being the British Government really had been tiring. With a snort, he let himself grin. Maybe he could just picture this as a holiday, spending time as a teenager.


End file.
